GLASS

Open the door

right onto the canal,

the old wall’s whitewash

light as snow

drifting to the water.

The bridge arched at the end of the alley

seems lower

than last year.

A few white balconies

still speckled bright with flowers.

The ink-green shutters

half open, half closed

for the siesta.

A gondola rocks by

without song

They come back from the glass factory,

saying how transparent

the strawberry-red glass,

how thin the hyacinth blue.

I only say

I think I see

Venezia,

little by little,

becoming a sheet of glass.